I’m in the middle of writing a scene and my protagonist a six foot three male is in solitary confinement. Literally this oversized man is trapped in a six-feet by six-feet box. No lush setting, no iron bars, no bed with a bone thin mattress, no filthy sink, no toilet.
Did I just write myself into a corner with no way out? My character urged me to avoid the easy fix as my fingers hovered over the delete key. He surveyed that dusty cement floor and hunkered down on what he told himself for the next thirty days would be the sweet spot. His eyes closed he embraced the memory of a seven year old boy whose secret hiding place is an old cardboard box. During those thirty days, he counted the cinder blocks eighty-two times, puked seven times, savored the smell of mildew over his own urine, engaged nightly in a pitchy jailhouse version of name that tune, caressed the warmth of the slither of light peaking through a 12 inch window three feet above his head, filed his nails on the concrete floor, repented for his stupidity, and defecated thirty times in a foot deep dirt filled hole one hundred and eighty degrees opposite the sweet spot. Can you imagine the stench?